It's Not the Kind of Story You'd Publish
by Cyrano de Tucson
Summary: An exile spills the beans about what's really going on behind the scenes of the Pocket Monsters' world. Rated R for language, adult situations, and violence.
1. It's Not the Kind of Story You'd Publish

I ran into her in a automat at Mhiessan High Port. I was looking for a little Caf while waiting for a flight to Betelgeuse; She was staring morosly at the stasis-locked food-like substances behind the glass doors.  
  
She was wearing a PokéBall on a silver chain around her neck.   
  
"I didn't know they allowed those off-world," I said, pointing with my chin to her necklace. There are too many places, these days, where someone'll take offense to pointing with your fingers.  
  
She looked at me blankly for a moment, then shrugged. "It's empty," she answered. "And the tech's freely available. It's only the monsters they don't let off-world."  
  
I nodded, and got my caf. "You've been there, then?"  
  
She snorted. "Yeah; you might say that." She sounded bitter, and I heard a Story.  
  
"I'm with Voyages Illustrated," I said, digging my press card out of my pocket. "You want to tell me about it?"  
  
She looked at the press card, and looked at me. "It's not the kind of story you'd publish," she said, and decided on one of the sandwiches.   
  
As she punched in the code, I smiled my biggest charming bastard smile, the one that always seems to get me the interview. Or punched in the teeth. "Why don't you let me judge that?" I asked. "Look, why don't you just come sit over here with me, and tell me about it. Maybe I can't use it... maybe I can."  
  
She collected her sandwich, and looked at me. "All right," she said. "I suppose it's no skin off my nose if the Tourism Board gets bent over it."  
  
We sat. She lit a cigarette, took a hit from the breath mask full of smoke. I raised an eyebrow, and she coughed, smiled. "No worse than hanging around with a Wheezing for a day or two," she commented, and then took a bite of her sandwich.  
  
She chewed for a moment, looking thoughtful, and I thought I was going to have to prod her. She started talking though, after that bite. "You've seen the stuff released by the Tourism Board, I'm sure. The PokéMaster and his little red-head fuck-buddy travelling around while the Poor Little Rich Kids try to steal his Pikachu?"  
  
I nodded.  
  
"It's crap, of course."  
  
I raised an eyebrow. "Crap?"  
  
She took another bite out of the sandwhich. "Yeah. The kid on eternal summer; everyone helping him out... the wonderful classless society." She grabbed my caf, took a swig, and put the caf back in front of me. "They don't tell you how expensive those PokéBalls are; don't tell you about the expert-system tutors those kids are carrying around in their backpacks; don't tell you how expensive those are, or what the law does to kids who are found wandering around without one. They don't tell you that those PokéCenters are supported by subscriptions purchased by those kids' parents, or that if you don't have a subscription, care for Monsters costs more than medical care for people. They don't tell you about how all the public-service positions... police, medical, and so on... are filled by specially-designed clones. They don't tell you...." She scowled, shrugged, and took a bite of her sandwich. Through the mouthfull, she finished, "a lot of things."  
  
I nodded, and took the cigarette from her, taking a hit from the mask myself. I hate smoke, but if we were going to establish a working relationship, I needed to demonstrate some camaradarie. I managed to take it in and exhale it again without coughing. "So how do you know this?"  
  
"I'm from there," she said. "I'm an exile. That's what they do with us criminals... they send us away."  
  
"Oh?" I asked. "What'd you do?"  
  
"I killed a man."  
  
She took another drag on her cigarette, and shrugged. "The bastard had it coming," she said, and took another bite of her sandwich. "Of course, I imagine that a lot of murderers say that. Killing someone is a hard thing, so unless you're a pretty hard person, you think you have a reason... a damn good reason."  
  
She smiled, but it wasn't a happy smile. "He took my Arbok while I was sleeping," she said, mimicking a teenage girl's voice, "so I had my Beedrill sting him to death, and my Sandslash burried the pieces where no one will ever find them."  
  
I nodded, and sipped my caf. "Is that what happened?"  
  
"No," she said, shooting me a look of scorn. "I was being sarcastic."  
  
"Ah. Of course."  
  



	2. The Last Day of My Life

My earliest memory (she began) is of hiding. Or rather, of being _aware_ I was hiding, in plain sight. My mother's name was Joy... that's right... one of the cloned medics you see on the shows the Tourism Department releases. There were a lot of things I didn't know as a kid; things I only found out later. I might as well tell you up front the things I found out later; it makes a clearer story, that way.  
  
I was the child of rape. Oh, you needen't be surprised. Aparently, it happens to the Joys fairly often. One of the older kids... and it isn't always a boy... will decide to find out how much joy they can get from Joy. Usually, it doesn't come to much... clones aren't much higher in our society than the monsters themselves are. The Joy gets a memory wipe, and a morning-after uterine flush, and maybe the kid gets caught by a Jenny and fined, and maybe not.  
  
In the case of my mother, things were a little more serious. The kid who raped her was almost too old to stay at the Center... nearly thirteen. Which is something else that confuses people about our world. Our orbit's a little further from our star than the original Earth, Manhome. So one of our years is a little less than one and a half standard years.  
  
Which explains how the poor little rich girl is so boobly.  
  
Anyway, I was talking about my mother. This kid decides that he wants a _lot_ of Joy, and gets his Haunter to put her to sleep. You know about Haunters? They're pretty damn spooky. They eat your thoughts; they can turn you into a drooling moron in moments, and then they can get inside your body and wear you like a suit. They sicken me.  
  
So this kid had his Haunter send my mother to sleep, and then he slung her across the back of his Charizard, and they flew off to a pretty remote cave. Total bondage scene, as I understand it... chains, collars, the whole works. Aparently, the kid was a real nutcase... convinced that Joy would love him, if he just had enough time to explain things to her, and kept her real well abused.  
  
My mother escaped. See, the Monsters... except for the ones that are Monsters in more than name... are pretty decent. Eventually, they got disturbed by this, and the Charizard brought a bunch of Jennies to the little cave.  
  
The kid got exiled. I imagine another planet probably ended up mindwiping him or something. I dunno.  
  
What I do know is that by the time the rescue happened, my mom was pretty obviously knocked up. When the Jennies set her free, they offered her a choice... to come with them, and get memorywiped and have an abortion, or to officially die in the cave, and try to make her own way.  
  
My mother chose to die.  
  
There's a criminal underclass, even on Earth. No, I'm not talking about Manhome; I've no reason to talk about _that_ Earth. So when I say Earth, I'm talking about my home, about the Monster's World, okay?  
  
So, there's a criminal underclass. Pretty much anything you want can be had, if you have something to trade for it.  
  
My mom was a trained Monster medic. Ask yourself who'd have use for medical care for their Monsters, without it appearing in official records, and you'll have a pretty good idea who she ended up working for. They got her a new face, and she turned her hair white by burning the roots with liquid nitrogen. I can't even imagine how much that must've hurt.  
  
She named me Judy, when I was born, and hid me in plain sight, in a town called Chartruse. I went to kindergarden with everyone else, got educated on the world, the galaxy, and of course... the Monsters.  
  
Oh, I was smitten with the Monsters, of course. When you're a kid, you don't see any of the scary fucking Monsters. No one lets you know that a Muk smells worse than raw sewage; no one exposes you to a Gengar that can eat your brain. When you're a kid, you see Chancy and Jigglypuff; Eevee and Vulpix.  
  
So I studied. I knew that many kids spent the years from nine to thirteen on journey, looking for new monsters, and seeking to be the toughest Monster trainer in their league.  
  
And I expected my mom was going to be able to pay for it... for the balls I'd need, for the PokéCenter subscription, for wagers and league event entrance fees.  
  
She probably would have, except for one thing. The Mob. Yes, there's a Mob. No, they don't call themselves anything as silly as Team Rocket. That's Tourist Board nonsense. In the show, Team Rocket provides conflict for the main characters, while not actually being particularly a threat, nor particularly effective.  
  
In real life, the Mob is both more subtle and more frightening.  
  
I was almost nine when the turf war broke out. I don't know the details... someone decided he wanted more power, or more money, or more something... and decided to take over Chartruse's boss' piece of the action.

They tell me that the children of rape are predisposed to feelings of rage. That we're more agressive, quicker to anger, quicker to get into trouble. Perhaps it's true. Perhaps it even explains some of what happened.  
  
I remember the last happy day of my life. Sliph Co. had just released their PokéGear, and Mom and I spent the day looking at it. I needed an expert system tutor for my upcoming journey, and mom wanted to get me the older, notebook style, version.  
  
I, of course, wanted the cool PokéGear.   
  
The store was Rocky's PokéMart. I remember it clearly, the early spring sun streaming in through the windows, the shelves of toys for kids, and those of gear for serious trainers.  
  
"I don't know, honey," Mom was saying, looking at the PokéGear. "It's so expensive. And it's not like this is the only purchase we'll need to make... you'll need PokéBalls, and potions, and the Center subscription isn't inexpensive."  
  
I pouted. If it seems immature, allow me to remind you that I wasn't yet nine years old. "But _mom_," I whined, "look, _this one_ has a cell phone! And a GPS unit! You'd be able to see where I was all the time!"  
  
"There are phones in the Centers," my mother pointed out, reasonably. "And I don't want you sleeping rough, anyway. You should be able to make it from one center to another, even with some battles along the way."  
  
"Yeah, that's another reason I should get _this_ one," I said, still trying to sell her on the PokéGear. "Look, you can get a card with Roamer's Guide, with the places trainers hang out near each town! How will I find the places to go for battles, if I don't have that?"  
  
My mother examined the card, dubiously. "The printed copy's less expensive," she pointed out.  
  
"Oh, Mom! Print is _so_ last century!"  
  
She sighed. "All right," she said, throwing up her hands. "You win. It'll mean you won't have as many PokéBalls to start with, though."  
  
"That's okay... I'll make it up in wagers. I'm _sure_ I'll start winning right off!"  
  
Mom shook her head and sighed. Looking back on it, I sigh with her. I wonder how many kids start out thinking they're going to be the undefeated champ of the League?   
  
We bundled up my purchases, and started for home. I couldn't wait; I went ahead and put the PokéGear on.


End file.
